


Wolves In The House (Won't Let Me Out)

by otter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bedroom Sex, Biting, Established Relationship, Hypothermia, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, M/M, Marking, Sharing a Bed, Xeno, xenokink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otter/pseuds/otter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets eaten by a mind-controlling lake, Derek is fluffier than usual, and everything turns out pornier than expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **BEFORE YOU READ** , I'd like to point out in case you missed the tag (or don't know what it means) that this fic is xeno porn. What that means in practical terms is that it's explicit sexytimes between a human and a werewolf in the Alpha (giant furry werewolf) form. If you find that idea actively revolting, this is not the story for you. If you find that idea questionable but intriguing, I hope you'll give it a chance. If you find that idea fantastically awesome, I hope you'll be my friend because we should start a club.
> 
> I was doing a headcanons prompt thing on [tumblr](http://agentotter.tumblr.com) and was prompted with "Sterek, forced to share a bed after Stiles gets hypothermia and Derek tries to warm him up. (bonus points for Stiles waking up in more way than one)." I was going to write a little drabble thing and then it turned into 8000 words of xeno porn. Uh.... sorry. I don't even know if my prompter is into that but it just happened anyway. I keep talking about how much I like xeno but never actually writing any, so here at last I've actually done it.
> 
> My thanks to DevilDoll and Keriarentikai for their betaing skills, and kungfunurse for the encouragement. Title from the Phosphorescent song "[Wolves](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qBM5TQKGJO8)", which I've only just discovered and it's awesome.
> 
> Also please check out the links in the end notes for magnificent podfic and fanart for this story by frighteningly talented people whom I love.

The worrying thing about the lake is, it _wants_ him to walk into it.

That's the only reason Derek stops, stuttering to a halt even as his weight and momentum make him sway forward. His boots are braced against a few sturdy stones, on the cusp of that last step forward, but he pulls himself back before he can actually splash right in, clothes and all, the way Stiles did. He should be worried, panicked even, but instead he just feels calm, tranquil in a way he hasn't been in... ever, maybe. That's how he knows for sure that it's doing something to him; the sudden peace of mind can't possibly be his own.

He can tell that the water is frigid; the wind that whips across its surface is winter-cold, _glacier_ -cold, and there's actual frost glistening on the rocks beneath his boots. The lake's surface is glossy black, its depths opaque, and the water shouldn't be that freakishly, preternaturally flat; under the force of the wind it should at least be rippled. Even if the winds were calm, it's only been moments since Stiles disappeared entirely beneath the surface, and surely there should be some sign of his presence, a rising of bubbles to mark his place beneath the water.

There isn't, though. There wasn't when he walked in, either, not that Derek had been able to see, but he'd been far enough off that he'd only managed a baffled, "Stiles, what are you—" before Stiles had taken one step into the lake, and then another, and then another, until the water had quietly swallowed him whole.

Stiles has been under too long by far, should've broken the surface by now if he were able, but Derek isn't sure what to do, how to help, when he can feel how _hungry_ the lake is. He knows if he walks in, he'll never walk out again. He wants to do it anyway.

He doesn't realize he's taken off his shirt until it's already done; he looks down at his hands and the cotton is clutched between clawed fingers. His feet are bare, too, his cold toes brushing frost from the stones beneath his feet. He doesn't remember taking his boots off, or his socks, and they're nowhere around. He frowns, drops the t-shirt into the water, and watches it disappear, quickly and comprehensively; it's hardly darkened with water before it's sucked down into a blackness that's too deep to be natural, as if the familiar pebbled lakebed, the one he remembers beneath his feet from the countless summer swims of his childhood, has given way to a new, mind-boggling depth. He breathes in, air so cold it makes his lungs burn, and his hands work mechanically at his belt buckle, his zipper, and it's only a moment's work to slip out of his jeans and underwear, even if he isn't entirely sure why he's doing it. The lake takes those, too, though Derek only realizes he's given them up as they too disappear without so much as a ripple to mark their passing.

He's naked now, and cold, and he doesn't know why he's taken off his clothes, except he does. Because people take off their clothes before they get into the water, don't they? And it's cold out here, but the water will be so warm, it's obviously a hot spring, it—

He stops himself, wobbling awkwardly on one leg, his toes just above the water, his body eager for the heat and the quiet and the unstoppable calm. He doesn't want it, because he's _not_ calm. Stiles is in the water, doesn't possibly have the lung capacity to still even be _alive_ in there, and Derek's not calm about that. He's angry, he's _furious,_ at this trespass on his territory, this interloper in his own hunting ground and his own mind, this _thief_ that's robbed him of his mate, that's possibly robbed Stiles of his _life._

Derek shifts into his Alpha form without even thinking about it, lets the change sweep over him like fire, and when his bones reshape themselves and the fur bristles from his skin, the lake's hold on him snaps too, like a buoy suddenly untethered. He roars his anger across the water, so loud that the water finally moves, vibrates with the force of it. He howls, and though it's not a language Stiles will ever understand, he's still calling his human home, back to his pack, back to _Derek._ The water shivers. The wind subsides.

His howl's still echoing back on itself when Stiles suddenly breaks the surface of the water, a good hundred feet out, his arms flailing frantically, his gaping mouth heaving in breaths so desperate they'd be audible even to human ears. He splashes, trying to wipe the water from his eyes, trying to get his bearings, but the sound of Derek's voice is enough to draw him toward the shore, a churning inelegant mess in the water, clothes dragging at him. When the water turns shallow he crawls on his knees, then staggers to his feet, shuddering and shivering, and all Derek can do is pace the shoreline, snarling, waiting for him to get there, trying to dream up a hundred ways to kill a _lake_. He feels impotent and useless, rage twisting his muscles tight, but helplessly afraid to splash into the water and drag Stiles in.

"Little h-help?" Stiles bites out, between convulsively clattering teeth. He's already stumbling into Derek's arms, and Stiles comes so easily that Derek almost doesn't realize that he's still in his other shape until he sees the dark fur and his clawed hand against the almost blue cast of Stiles' skin.

He pulls Stiles against him without even thinking about it, ignoring the cold and wet, wrapping his arms around Stiles' back and trying to hunch the rest of himself over Stiles' body.

"Oh my god," Stiles gasps against him, the words muffled against the thick fur at Derek's chest. It almost sounds erotic, for a moment, the blissful moan of a lover, but then Stiles squirms in Derek's hold and it's plain that he's just trying to get closer to warm himself up, would probably crawl right inside Derek's ribcage, if he could.

Derek says, "You—" but then he huffs and gives up, words too difficult to form with his long tongue, broad muzzle, not-quite-human throat. He runs a broad, clawed hand down Stiles' body instead, cradles the back of his skull, palms the nape of his neck, presses down the line of his spine, answering the question for himself.

"I'm good," Stiles says, obviously picking up on Derek's unarticulated question. It's obviously a lie, because the words come out whisper-quiet and wobbling. "I'm okay, for somebody who just got vomited up by a mind-controlling lake. I'm just _really cold._ And you're a fucking furnace."

The noise Derek makes is a little embarrassing, so he buries his nose against the cold, clammy skin of Stiles' neck, huffs out a hot breath like he can warm Stiles that way, one square inch of skin at a time.

"I think you scared the whatever-it-was away," Stiles says, and stretches out a foot to prod the water with it, like he's kicking a corpse to make sure it's dead.

Derek picks Stiles up completely to snatch him back, but he isn't fast enough, and nothing happens anyway; the water, clear now and completely ordinary-looking, ripples predictably around the splash of Stiles' sneaker against its surface. Stiles doesn't seem eager to walk back in to his doom, either.

"See?" Stiles says. "We can research it later, since I don't think your plan of clawing it to death is going to work anyway. You can't maim water, Derek."

Derek figures he can maim anything, if he tries hard enough, but he's learned over the years that there's something to be said for retreat in the face of completely baffling adversaries. Regardless, his biggest problem at the moment is Stiles, who is cold and wet and unhappy. He can figure out how to murder a lake another day.

Stiles seems to agree, because he says, "Hey, let's go back to the house. Can I ride on your back like a baby lemur?"

Derek's answer is a wordless grumble, but he also drops down to all fours and crouches low, giving Stiles all the opening he needs to clamber up onto Derek's furred back. It's not comfortable; Stiles is soaked, his knees are digging painfully into Derek's flanks, his hands are tugging at the fur on Derek's shoulders. When Derek actually gets up and starts moving, Stiles just clings harder and seems somehow, impossibly, to become even bonier than he already was.

The route home is a bit longer than it would be if Derek were alone; he has to stick to more well-established trails to keep the underbrush and low-lying tree branches from sweeping his passenger off. But Stiles at least has relaxed and found his balance in the rhythm of Derek's gait by the journey's mid-point, even if his shivering has intensified. It's almost nice, loping through the familiar Preserve with Stiles' weight pressed against him. Derek's a little self-conscious about his Alpha form, usually, and he tends not to hold it when Stiles is around because it's more difficult to meet Stiles' sass with sarcasm when his mouth isn't really equipped to form words. But he thinks it might be nice, sometime, to try this again in an non-emergency situation. He could take Stiles out to that quiet spot he likes, with all the wildflowers and that soft, deep-grassed, sun-drenched hollow where he likes to nap sometimes as a wolf. He could topple Stiles off his back right there, could press him down into the grass and—

No. Nope. He's not going there. Right now.

He's got more important things to think about at the moment, because he's trotting up the steps onto the front porch of their house, and Stiles is sliding clumsily off his back. It's not just Stiles' usual level of clumsy — that mostly went away when he grew into his shoulders and took up parkour — it's a white-faced, groggy-looking clumsy. He's stopped shivering, and Derek's sure that's not good.

He shifts back to his human shape, just in time to catch Stiles as he starts to topple. "Get inside, idiot," he says, fond, exasperated, and worried all at once. "Let's get these wet clothes off."

Stiles is already trying to get out of his jacket, but it's not really working; his coordination is shot, and Derek has to help him. The garment drops with a splat in the tiled entryway, as Derek hauls them both through the front door and keeps peeling Stiles out of sodden layers.

"I'm good," Stiles finally says, when Derek is trying to get him out of his clinging jeans. He's not actually good; he slurs the words and his hands are weak and fumbling. He doesn't do a very good job of pushing Derek off of him, either, and he stops trying when he's naked and Derek's hauling him up the stairs, lifting him more than letting him walk.

"What should I do? Stiles? I don't remember the shit for hypothermia. Who even gets that in coastal California? What am I supposed to do, warm bath?"

"That sounds awful," Stiles says, frowning. "Doesn't that... heart attack, or something?"

He leaves out part of his train of thought completely, but Derek doesn't like the sound of the part Stiles _does_ remember.

"Okay, so what, then? Should I call Melissa? Oh, fuck. My phone's in the lake. Along with my pants."

Stiles laughs against his throat, and even his _breath_ feels cool. "What about just... you change back, and we get in bed. Like a bearskin rug."

It takes a second before Derek even gets what he means, and then another second for Derek to stop being offended at being compared to a bearskin rug. He'll make Stiles pay for it later, though, because they're in the bedroom now, they've officially reached the bed, and his priority now is getting Stiles beneath the blankets. They're not much — Beacon Hills isn't exactly freezing, usually — but they'll help trap body heat, at least.

Derek manhandles Stiles into the bed and beneath the sheets, leaves them half pulled back for himself, and then pushes the change again, sprouts fur, grows bigger. His body temperature is naturally a bit higher this way, which should help, and his pelt should help warm Stiles a little, too, if he makes a blanket of himself. Or a rug. Little shit.

He climbs into the bed carefully, ignores Stiles' childish _ooooh_ sound and the way Stiles clutches at him like he's a teddy bear and a heating pad all in one. He does flip Stiles around, though, so Stiles is the little spoon, his back to Derek's chest, and he curls Stiles up so that he can trap those ice-cold feet between his own thighs. He presses Stiles' body against the bed and tries to cover it with his own, as much as he's able, until Stiles grunts like he can't breathe anymore.

It doesn't take long for Stiles to start shivering again, which Derek is pretty sure is a good sign. It takes maybe a half an hour before he actually starts talking, but when he does the slur is gone from his voice, and he's complaining, which for Stiles is generally a sign of health.

"My nose is really cold, Derek," is the first thing he says, in a really piteous tone of voice.

Derek's been breathing on Stiles' face, trying to warm it that way, but he's not proud: he puts his mouth to work in another way, licking broad stripes over the planes of Stiles' nose, cheekbones, forehead, jaw. It should actually stimulate blood flow and warm him up a little, but also has the satisfying effect of making Stiles squirm and curse Derek's name.

When he finally relents, stops licking, and settles again, there's only silence for maybe a minute before Stiles offers another complaint.

"My fingers are cold, too," he says. The tone of his voice is the one that he thinks is sly. It's actually just obvious, but Derek suspects it's meant to be.

Derek can only reach one hand — the other is wedged beneath Stiles' armpit; this one is curled around Stiles' own arm on the near side — but he makes the most of it, laving the fingers with his tongue, lovingly slobbering on the knuckles, mouthing at the bony wrist. When Stiles picks the hand up, like he wants Derek to give his palm the same treatment, Derek instead opens his whole mouth, draws Stiles' hand delicately in with his tongue, closes his canines carefully around Stiles' wrist, enveloping the entire appendage in moist heat.

Stiles is frozen, but he's also twisted around enough that he can see what Derek's doing, and he doesn't look like he can quite believe it.

"Holy shit," he breathes, and his pupils are a wide, inky black, though whether it's with shock or arousal, it's impossible to tell. "You can fit my _entire fucking hand_ in your mouth. That is... that is frighteningly attractive."

Oh. Arousal, then.

Derek grunts around Stiles' hand, but doesn't let it go, presses his tongue up against Stiles' palm and breathes through his nose; he's certain it's only his imagination, but he thinks he can taste the pulse in Stiles' wrist. When Stiles' fingers seem warm enough, he opens his mouth and lets Stiles gingerly take the hand back, licks the taste of that skin from his own mouth, just to savor it.

Stiles is still staring at him, like he's never seen Derek before. It's probably fair; Derek doesn't shift to the Alpha form much — it's too much trouble, usually, and he's kind of tired of losing clothes — but when he has in the past it's usually been in the midst of a fight, or in the dark. Certainly never in their bedroom, in the early hours on a weekday, out of place among the bedsheets like a wild animal invited indoors.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles says.

Derek growls, low in his throat, and rolls to press Stiles more firmly against the bed in an attempt to make him go to sleep. He's warming up, but he still needs to rest. Whatever it is that Stiles wants _this_ time, they can talk about it in the morning.

 _"Dereeeeeek,_ come on." Stiles wriggles beneath him, but Derek doesn't give ground, and finally Stiles relents with a grumbled, "Fine," and goes limp, like he's planning to feign sleep until Derek lets his guard down.

A few minutes later, the ploy becomes reality; Stiles sinks suddenly and profoundly into real sleep, his mouth open against the sheets, his heartbeat going slow and steady. Derek just lies there and listens to it for the longest time, reassuring himself that it's real, that it's still there, that this isn't some dream, that Stiles hasn't been lost in the depths of a more profound darkness, cold and alone.

Derek curls around that softly breathing body a little tighter. Stiles' feet have slipped from between Derek's thighs, and they feel warm enough now, but Derek flicks his tail over them, anyway, before he chases Stiles into sleep.

+++

He wakes to the very pleasant sensation of fingers buried in the fur over his stomach. He cracks his eyes open reluctantly, waiting for the inevitable crack about dogs and belly rubs, but it never comes; Stiles is just lying there, watching his own fingers kneading at Derek's body like a cat with a blanket, seemingly mesmerized by the fur beneath his hands.

Derek grunts to let Stiles know he's awake, and stretches a little, careful not to move enough to dislodge Stiles. He gives Stiles a cursory looking-over, making sure he's alright, but Stiles is beyond warm now, blankets thrown back from his body, delicious sweat-smell beneath his armpits, at his crotch, down the line of his back where they'd been pressed together in sleep. Stiles smells like Derek all over, shed hairs clinging to him, the scent amplified by the heat between them.

"I've never seen you like this," Stiles says. "Not in the daylight, anyway." There's plenty of that, now, streaming in through the windows, most of the drapes left open the night before.

Stiles grows a little bolder with his hands, sweeping them down Derek's body, fingers firm along each line and plane, like he's trying to map out exactly what Derek looks like, beneath the fur. He's looking, too, intent the same way he gets when he's studying, taking everything of Derek in, like he wants to see how the man fits beneath the surface of the wolf's skin.

It must be strange, Derek thinks, to wake up with a monster in bed, even if you knew you were lying down with one. His body in this shape is only vaguely human; his chest is narrower and deeper, to give his shoulders a greater range of movement, allow him to run comfortably and quickly on all fours. His whole frame is bigger, his legs — his _hind_ legs — curved in a completely inhuman way, his knees and heels pulled higher, his gait pushed up onto the balls of his feet, his clawed feet with hardly an echo of his human shape left at all. His hands are broader, rougher, and more deadly; they're the most alien thing about him, he thinks, because they look so human, at first glance. He's accustomed to the animal that he is, doesn't think of wolf and man as two separate entities, but even he still isn't at home inside this body. He wasn't capable of shifting this way, before he became an Alpha, and after, it took a long time to master this particular skill. He doesn't use it much, hardly even knows what he looks like, what it must be like for Stiles to see him this way.

Stiles, though, doesn't seem to have a problem with it. He pulls himself up so he's crouched on his knees, and Derek thinks for a moment that he's going to leave, but he's only giving himself a better vantage point. He says, "Do you mind if I—" but he doesn't finish the thought, or wait for an answer. He just reaches out again, running his hands down the roped muscle of Derek's arm, traces the veins beneath the smooth fur at Derek's wrist, rubs a finger against the spongy paw pads on Derek's fingertips, the pattern of them on Derek's palm, the thick claws arcing from each fingertip.

Derek rolls onto his back, stretching out and relaxing, intent on just lying there comfortably until Stiles is finished with his explorations. He doesn't mind, really, almost wishes he could do the same, catalog himself from the outside in. He more or less knows what he looks like, but he's never exactly changed like this in front of a mirror.

"I don't get how you're so much bigger," Stiles says, almost to himself. "Like you've literally gained mass. Which shouldn't be possible except, you know. Magic."

Derek huffs, flexes his hand beneath Stiles' seeking fingers until they're knit together, palm to palm. It feels strange and perfect and right, all at the same time, the way touching Stiles always does, like it's a miracle and surprise every time it happens, even for as long as it's been happening. He looks different through Derek's wolf-eyes, but Derek at least is used to that, accustomed to the way the world goes sharper, a little flatter, more intricately detailed when his eyes change. The first time he shifted, as a boy, the flood of information had completely fucked with his depth perception; he'd had to spend a month learning how to see again just so he wouldn't fall on his face. Now it's easy and familiar, to be able to see the texture of Stiles' skin, the levels of depth in his eyes, the strands of his hair each individual and so detailed that looking was nearly the same as touching.

Nearly.

Derek gives in to temptation and runs his free hand carefully through Stiles' wild thatch of hair, scratching his claws delicately over the thin skin of Stiles' scalp. His own fingers aren't as sensitive anymore, thickly padded for quadrupedal walking, not very dexterous either. It still feels good, though, to have the shape of Stiles' skull cradled in his palm, to know that this is something delicate that he will never, ever break.

It's profoundly satisfying the way Stiles arches into it, humming under his breath, encouraging more. He plants a hand against Derek's stomach, like he needs it to hold his balance — maybe he does, since his eyes have fallen shut — but his fingers dig in again, too, finding the planes of muscle beneath the fur.

When he opens his eyes and looks down at Derek, there's a hunger there that Derek knows well, has never been able to say no to. He's the wolf, but Stiles has always been the one with unexpected appetites.

"Derek," Stiles says, and it's not a question or a statement or _anything,_ really; Derek doesn't know what it means.

He tilts his head to one side, universal canine language for a question mark, but Stiles is already asking the question in another way, running light, delicate fingers over the thin fur and soft skin of the sheath covering Derek's cock.

Derek's breath rushes from his lungs, and he lets out a whimper without even thinking about it. It's not a no, or a yes; it's the wordless, helpless whine of an animal, and Derek can't understand why Stiles _wants_ this, wants _him_ like this.

"Hey, you wanna tap out?" Stiles says, and he leans over Derek's body like he wants to kiss, before he realizes that Derek's mouth isn't really capable of it. He does it anyway, though, presses his lips to the corner of Derek's mouth, rubs his cheek along Derek's muzzle, drops a chaste little kiss on the tip of Derek's black, canine nose.

Derek can't even think around it, Stiles' heady, complex scent, the rush of Stiles' breath against his own mouth and he can _taste_ it. That hand is still stroking at his cock through the sheath, growing bolder, pressing harder. Stiles' other hand is wrapped around his own cock, lazily teasing himself into hardness. Derek whines again, unsure exactly what he's asking for, only wanting _more_ and _harder_ and _everything._

Stiles grins against his mouth, sharper than any wolf, and then pulls back a little, returns his attention to what his hand is doing, examining Derek's rearranged dick like it's a puzzle he needs to unlock. He pulls the sheath back, like the foreskin it essentially is, and exposes the tip of the cock inside. His other hand reaches for Derek's balls, hanging low between furred thighs, and he seems satisfied with the way Derek jolts and groans when he cradles them in his palm.

"You ever done this? Played with yourself?"

Derek shakes his head. It seems stupid not to know his own body, but the idea of actually doing it himself is a little absurd, too. He's definitely never lounged around at home in his Alpha form, checking out how the plumbing works, trying to bring himself off with his thick, rough fingers. This body is for intimidating things, _killing_ things, not for—

"It's different," Stiles says. "There's not much of a head on it. Fuck, I bet that's smooth going in."

Not for that. Except maybe it is.

Stiles looks excited about it, which is a whole new level of insane even for him, but it's hot, too, that he wants Derek this way. Every way. Derek feels himself twitch just at the thought of it, his cock beginning to push its own way out of the sheath, pink and slick. Stiles drops a hand to his own cock again, giving himself rough, fast pulls, like he can't bother to spare himself too much attention but he can't help it either, like just the sight of Derek's cock is turning him on, like he wants to compare the shape and weight of a human cock with the one in his other hand.

 _"Fuck,"_ Stiles breathes, staring down at both of them like he can't quite believe it. He loops his fingers around the tip of Derek's cock, tight, like he's giving Derek a hole to fuck into.

The sensation of it is electric, has Derek growling and thrusting mindlessly up into Stiles' grip, his cock pressing itself up out of the sheath and into that grip. He looks down at himself, at Stiles' hand on him, and although everything about himself seems strange and foreign, everything about Stiles is the same: open panting mouth, clever hands, hard glimmering eyes, like orgasms are a competition he's intent on winning.

"Christ, that's unexpectedly big, I can't believe you were hiding all that in there," Stiles says. His hand starts working at Derek's cock, re-learning it. It doesn't really thicken or get harder the way a human's would, but it starts out plenty big enough, and it keeps pushing, up and out, until Stiles' hands are full with it, and the swelling at the base pushes out, too, and fucking _Christ,_ he actually _does_ have a knot, he always thought that was bullshit. His cock's not as thick as he's used to, but longer, strangely tapered at the tip.

Stiles' hand works the length of it, moving easily over that already-slick flesh, while the other hand wraps around the softness of the knot, testing its texture and its girth, getting a feel for it.

He's never wanted anything as much as he suddenly wants to fuck into Stiles, feels that need start burning him from the inside out, every instinct screaming for his obedience to himself, to his desire. Stiles' body is flushed, warm because Derek _made_ it warm, so naked, so _hard,_ balls hanging heavy, cock thick, slit beaded already with precome, so turned on just from _touching_ Derek. Stiles wants him, would let himself be rolled and taken and filled, Derek could do it, he could—

His mind goes a sudden, terrifying blank, occupied only by the thought of mounting, fucking, having, knotting, _claiming._

He pushes it back, takes a shuddering breath, and sits up. Stiles shifts, giving him a little more room, scrambles over his outstretched leg until he's kneeling between Derek's thighs, still working at Derek's cock. He seems oblivious to Derek's struggle for control, but Derek already knows that the risk wouldn't make him stop, anyway; he trusts Derek, trusts Derek's mastery of himself, sometimes more than he should.

Derek shifts closer, ignoring Stiles' grumbled complaint as Derek's body blocks out some of the light from the window. He's sure he can offer Stiles something more than an interesting view and a hands-on anatomy lesson. He licks at the line of Stiles' jaw, nips at the delicate flesh of an earlobe so, so carefully. Stiles' mouth is already open, and when Derek licks at his lips, flicks his tongue inside, Stiles only opens wider, moans, his hips jerking forward as he looks for friction and finds only air. Derek whimpers, mouths at the long line of Stiles' throat, laves it with his tongue, scrapes the length of his canines against it like a promise. His hands palm the wings of Stiles' shoulder blades, but he's careful with them, ginger almost, because every impulse is screaming at him to throw Stiles into the sheets and just _take_ him, and that's not what this is.

He'd call it an animal instinct, but a wolf's courtship is gentle, solicitous, tender; this need to take and claim is entirely human.

"Derek, fuck, I need you to—"

Whatever it is, Stiles doesn't finish, and Derek wishes he had the voice to harass the rest of that request from Stiles' lips, but it's kind of nice, too, having an excuse to be completely silent the way he often wants to be as a human. It doesn't matter, anyway; Stiles just moves, instead, taking what he wants, and apparently what he wants is to straddle Derek's thighs, not quite close enough for their cocks to brush together. Derek wraps both arms around Stiles' waist purely on instinct, to help him secure his position, but Stiles doesn't seem worried about it; he buries one hand in the thick ruff of fur at the back of Derek's neck, as if to steady himself, and his other hand is stripping harder, faster, up and down the length of Derek's cock.

Derek's not going to last long like this, he can already tell, but he doesn't mind. He has Stiles naked on top of him, all sweat and desire, and Stiles is the one doing all the taking, is the one who truly understands the beast inside both of them.

That's why his mouth is at Derek's ear, and he's pulling on Derek's fur, and he's whispering, "You're so beautiful like this, so powerful, so controlled, you're mine, aren't you Derek? We're going to do this again, you know, can't believe you've been holding this back, were you embarrassed? Did you ever think about it? Did you ever want me, like this, down on all fours, just mount me and fuck me and put that fucking knot in me? God, Derek, I want to see you come like this, see how big that knot gets; we'll start practicing, so I can take it, I want it so bad, I want _you._ "

Derek's hands slide down a little, his claws curling against the base of Stiles' spine, and his other hand slips lower still, careful, a single extended finger just pressing, insistent, against Stiles' asshole. The tip of his claw, thankfully thicker and more blunted in this shape than in a Beta shift, curves along the delicate skin of Stiles' perineum and makes him shudder, hard, his cock jolting without being touched.

Stiles gasps against Derek's mouth, squirms a little closer so his hard, neglected cock rubs against his own wrist as he tugs at Derek's cock almost frantically. Derek arches up into it, as much as he can without dislodging Stiles' weight, pressing his hips up again and again, insistently, seeking a tighter, wetter friction.

"We're gonna do that, we're gonna do everything, god, I'm going to fuck you like this too, hold onto your hips and throw your tail over my shoulder and fuck you until you literally howl, and that sound you made just now better not have been a wolfy snicker, Derek, I swear to god, because next time I'm gonna suck your cock and I need to pay attention so I know what to be prepared for so fucking stop laughing at me and _come,_ you asshole."

Stiles' hand tightens on him ruthlessly, an even more insistent demand, and Derek is helpless to do anything but obey, comes with a force and volume that surprises even himself. Most of it splashes against Stiles' bare chest where he's curved into Derek's body, watching like he's recording the results of a really sexy science experiment. The knot stiffens and swells, but—

"I can totally manage that," Stiles says, almost to himself. He grins as he wraps his hand around the knot and gives it a squeeze, like he's trying to imagine what it would feel like inside.

It feels fucking _incredible_ to Derek, and he can't hold back the embarrassing sound he makes as he starts coming again, thumping back down to the bed, unable to hold himself up anymore. He feels completely drowned beneath the wave of pleasure that rolls through his body, the scorching heat of it, the way his muscles twitch and jump without conscious thought, but he doesn't mind that loss of control, either, when he's safe in Stiles' hands.

Stiles just rolls down with him, hovers over him and watches him come again, and again, slides his fingers through it and wraps a slick hand over his own cock, working it fast and hard right away, like he's not planning on drawing it out.

"So good for me," Stiles says, kissing Derek's mouth again, flicking his tongue around the wicked curve of a canine tooth. "I've thought about this all the time, you know. Since the first time I saw you in your Alpha form — yeah, don't look at me like that, I was seventeen and you were featured in a variety of my more physically improbable fantasies, don't act like that doesn't turn you on."

Derek huffs under his breath, but mostly because he's pretty sure the look he was giving Stiles was actually blissed-out and vacant, not accusing. He's more or less gathered his scattered senses back to himself now, though, so he reaches out for Stiles' hips, tugs Stiles into a new position, not straddling Derek's hips anymore but perched instead on the lowest stretch of his abdomen, on top of Derek's cock. It's still extended, knot still swollen, and when Stiles settles himself on it a little more firmly — pulling his own ass cheeks apart so Derek's cock can rest between them, squeezed between Stiles' ass and Derek's own stomach, _Jesus_ — it twitches and he comes again, messily, between them.

Not that Stiles seems to mind. He's already dripping with it, slow streaks running down his chest and stomach, but he's ignoring it all, focused again on himself and his own pleasure, whimpering and whining beneath his breath as he strokes himself. Derek wants to help, but he knows his hands would be too rough, pads like sandpaper on flesh that delicate. Stiles leans forward, searching for a new position, and finally snugs himself tight against Derek's body, rubbing their cocks together at first, coaxing one last weak ejaculation from Derek — he regrets all the awkward talks nobody ever gave him about the powers of werewolf physiology, holy _fuck_ — and then wriggling up higher. He drags his dick through the soft fur at Derek's belly, the same spot he'd buried his fingers in at the start of the morning.

He braces himself with his hands on either side of Derek's chest and thrusts hard, a constant stream of sound falling from his mouth but only some of it even remotely counting as words. He seems to be pleased by the texture of fur against his cock, the heat of Derek's body, the sprawl of Derek beneath him, splayed out and used up and—

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Stiles chants, and he fists a hand at Derek's nape again, squeezing his eyes shut, looking almost pained. "I can't— I'm not— this isn't enough, I need more, _god_ I need to get _off_ —"

Derek nips at his mouth, like a warning to stop talking, and then he wraps his hands around Stiles' back and flips them both over, pushes Stiles' back down into the mattress and rolls his hips down, _hard,_ even though his own cock is finally subsiding. Stiles actually shouts with the thrust, mouth open against Derek's cheek, and for a moment Derek's worried that he's hurt, but then he's sobbing Derek's name and begging, so Derek does it a few more times, testing, trying not to take things too far for a human body.

"I'm not gonna break," Stiles snaps, and thumps a fist against Derek's shoulder, but then he adds, "Okay, maybe I will, maybe that's entirely possible, but it'd be _worth it,_ just make me _come._ "

He's gotten like this before, just in the course of... well, their more _normal_ sex life, if it could be called that. Sometimes he gets too wound up, too excited, so intent on chasing his orgasm that he chases it _away,_ and then he gets frustrated, and things go downhill from there. Usually Derek has to slow it down, begin again from the start and get Stiles to relax a little before he can finally let go. But Derek doesn't even know his own body well enough right now, much less how it fits to Stiles', and he's afraid to touch, worried about the roughness of his hands, the coarseness of his fur, the easy power of his jaw. Stiles has always been the one to ask for what he wants, to push for more, and Derek has always relied on his own ability to ask Stiles what he wants, how he wants it, what feels good and what doesn't. He's muzzled now, in a body not built for the tender, slow build that usually gets them through this kind of situation, and he's frozen with indecision while Stiles squirms beneath him, spitting out pleas and curses like an angry cat.

So Derek does what he _knows_ this body is good at, opens his mouth around Stiles' throat, pins him to the mattress with a warning growl. He gives himself a moment to enjoy the rush of satisfaction when Stiles goes still and limp, makes a high-pitched sound between gasped breaths. Derek closes his jaws until his canines press hard into muscle, just shy of pain, a warning to stay put, and then he lets go, shifts further down the bed and clamps his hands around Stiles' hips, just firmly at first. When Stiles presses up into it, asking for more, he squeezes tighter, hard enough to leave bruises. Stiles sighs, the muscles in his stomach relaxing a little, something in him satisfied about being held in place.

He folds himself down over Stiles' pelvis, and avoids the butt-sniffing joke he can already feel coming by thrusting his cold nose right beneath Stiles' balls, pushing them up at the same time he dives right in against Stiles' asshole with his tongue. He figures if he has any real advantages when it comes to sex in this body — aside from Stiles' apparent obsession with the new shape of his dick — it's that his tongue is long, powerful, and dexterous.

He knows drawing it out is the opposite of what Stiles wants from him, so he files the idea of hours-long oral away for another day, and stages an all-out assault on Stiles' anatomy. The strokes of his tongue are strong, sloppy, and wet, and he moves quickly from one target to the next, probing at Stiles' hole, licking broad stripes around his balls, drawing the whole sac into his mouth and letting Stiles feel his teeth. He's obviously on the right track, with the way Stiles progresses from silence back to whimpered curses, from fidgeting to almost thrashing.

Stiles is saying, "Please, please, please, Derek, please—"

The words choke off entirely when Derek turns his attention to Stiles' cock, licking a broad stripe up the underside, wrapping the length of his tongue around the circumference, drawing the whole thing into his mouth ever so carefully past sharp teeth, and flexing the strongest part of that muscle down the entire length at once. He can't suck, his mouth isn't made for it, but he wraps his tongue around Stiles' length as much as he can manage, makes sure his upper teeth are out of the way, and then loosens his grip on Stiles' hips, gently urging him to thrust. Derek has a long muzzle, tongue, throat, and he can take in a lot of air through his nose; he's reasonably certain this is going to work. Probably.

Stiles just stares down at him, at first, sweaty and wide-eyed, his hair in complete disarray, and now _he's_ the one who looks like a wild animal, unpredictable and savage and completely at home against the sheets, in this bed, where the monsters curl up and comfort each other in the night.

He says, "Derek," and his voice breaks in the middle, and then his hips push up, slow and smooth.

Derek takes it, like a gift, and Stiles pushes in again, and again, faster and deeper. When the root of his cock bumps against Derek's upper incisors, he only hisses like it's surprising but not necessarily _bad,_ and makes a strangled sound as he thrusts his hips up again. Derek is perfectly comfortable, is reasonably sure he could actually do this for hours, adds that to his mental list of things he wants to try later. It's turning into a surprisingly sizable list; he feels stupid for never even allowing himself to _think_ about this, about how it could be. He has other concerns to deal with now, though, because there are tears leaking from the corners of Stiles' eyes, and he's arching himself up off the bed entirely in an effort to get more, go deeper, and Derek isn't sure this is going to work. He might have to change back, finish Stiles in a way he knows _how,_ come back to this later.

He starts to pull back, but Stiles makes a noise like Derek's killing him, curls his body up just enough that he can grip flesh and fur on either side of Derek's face, holding his head in place. Stiles' whole body is quivering with the strain, every muscle clenched painfully tight, hips still rolling up into Derek's mouth, and Derek growls, low and deep, frustrated that he can't give Stiles what he wants.

Somehow he does, though, because the growl rumbles through Derek's skull and Stiles' cock and Stiles' orgasm hits him like a bullet, knocks him onto his back on the bed as his come hits the back of Derek's tongue. Derek feels the release almost as keenly as Stiles does, the relief of it, feels absurdly _proud_ of himself for coaxing it from Stiles' body. He lets Stiles' cock go gently, when it's over, licks it quietly clean as it finally begins to soften. He sits back on his haunches to admire the fine mess that's left of Stiles, the way his heaving chest slows, his unfocused eyes staring at the ceiling, his slack mouth and out-flung arms.

Derek wants to touch him, careful and slow, to gentle him after his hard-won climax, so he pulls the wolf back inside himself, puts on a more familiar, softer skin.

He settles down again quietly, stretches himself out at Stiles' side and spreads a broad hand against Stiles' stomach. That skin is still tacky with his own come, and he'll have to get up in a minute, get something to clean them both off. For now it can wait, though, because Stiles blinks at him slowly, grins a dopey grin, and says, "Have I told you you're my favorite?" It's a little slurred, but Derek can make it out well enough.

"I'd better be," Derek says. He tries to sound gruff, but he can't help his own stupid smile, feels it stealing across his lips without his permission.

"You seriously never thought about that before?" Stiles asks, his tone dubious. _"Seriously?"_

Derek shrugs, one-shouldered, unconcerned. Sometimes he doesn't think things through the way he should; sometimes Stiles over-thinks things he shouldn't bother with in the first place. It's part of why they fit together. "I never let myself, I guess. It seemed like too much to ask for. Even from you."

Stiles snorts. "Have you ever known me to say no to a crazy sex idea?"

"That's half the problem," Derek says, and laughs at the indignant look on Stiles' face. "I can only deal with so many sex-related trips to the emergency room per year. _One_ of us has to show a little restraint."

"Restraint is for the weak," Stiles says. He looks at Derek like he's contemplating moving just enough for a kiss and isn't sure he's up to it yet; Derek rolls his eyes and leans in obligingly, meeting Stiles' mouth, saying a fond good-morning with his tongue.

"I'm willing to concede you were right in this particular case," Derek says, against his lips, and then he pulls back and rolls to his feet, padding toward the bathroom to fetch a towel or something while Stiles loudly crows his victory. Derek's found it's usually best to be leaving the room any time he admits Stiles is right, just so he doesn't have to listen to the gloating.

He's overdue for the laundry this week — supernatural mysteries always throw off his schedule — so he pulls the hand towel off the rail, wets it in the sink, gives himself a bit of a scrub-down and rinses it off again before he takes it out to Stiles.

"But if you _had_ thought about it," Stiles says the moment he steps back into the room, as if there's been no pause in the conversation, "what would you have imagined doing?"

Derek hums thoughtfully as he runs the towel over Stiles' throat, down his chest and stomach, over his cock, between his legs, across all the soft and vulnerable parts of him. He thinks about that place in the woods with the bright flowers and tall grasses, thinks about Stiles' weight on his back, Stiles' vulnerable body beneath his claws, all the things that Stiles whispered into his ear, and all the things he thought of himself, behind the silence of his beast's tongue.

He tosses the towel aside, tumbles Stiles back into the sheets, and growls, _"Everything,"_ with all the greed of a ravenous animal.

  
**art by[Nordreys](http://archiveofourown.org/works/986479)**


	2. they tumble and fight (they are beautiful)

The problem is, Derek can't stop thinking about it.

No, scratch that. The _real_ problem is, Derek can't stop thinking about it, and Stiles doesn't seem to be thinking about it _at all._

At least, he doesn't bring it up again. Derek waits for it to happen, expects it the next night when they have sex, Stiles' hand closed tight around Derek's cock and jerking him off with long, slow pulls, and there's a moment when Stiles is just staring down at Derek's dick, and his mouth opens, and Derek is _sure_ he's going to say something about the shape of it, how different it is, how much he wants to—

But all he says is, "Fuck, yeah, Derek, come on," and Derek forgets about everything, even that, for a little while.

He's sure it's going to come up, one way or another, but it doesn't. He waits for a long week, on tenterhooks, but the closest they come to the subject is when Stiles squints at him and says, "You okay? You're being... weird. Er. Than usual." And when Derek says, "What? Yeah, it's... I'm fine," Stiles just shrugs, finishes making his sandwich, and wanders back into the other room.

He still takes Derek to bed, takes Derek _apart_ in a million little ways, so it's not like he's obviously _regretting_ what they did, or anything, he's just... not suggesting they do it again. Which is okay. It's fine. But he _had_ said that he wanted to, while they were in the middle of doing it. So maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he feels weird about it, now that they're not in the moment anymore. Maybe when they _were_ in the moment, Stiles was still suffering from some sort of hypothermia-related delirium. Or maybe it just wasn't that good, wasn't as good for Stiles as it was for Derek.

There's no way he thinks about it as much as Derek does, anyway, because if he did he'd be the one who was constantly distracted. Instead it's Derek who loses himself by slow inches, watching Stiles' hands and thinking about those fingers curled in his fur, eyeing the nape of Stiles' neck and wanting to close his jaw around it. They go for a run together in the Preserve and Derek can't think of _anything_ except tumbling Stiles into the leaves and licking the sweat from his body.

He actually does that last one, and Stiles enthusiastically approves, but it's not right, it's not _enough,_ it's not what he's actually after, what he wants so badly he can't think around it.

Stiles is always telling him to use his words, so he tries it once, when they're in bed, but he waits too long and by the time he starts gasping, "I want— I want to—" against Stiles' throat, it's too late, and Stiles is making him come, and he loses his train of thought, loses his ability to make words at all. He ends up just holding on too tight, while Stiles runs broad hands over his back, hushes him, kisses his hair and cradles him close.

He tries again, the next morning, but his courage deserts him completely when he says, "I want to—" and Stiles looks up at him, waiting, expectant. Derek turns back to the bacon, frying merrily away in the pan.

"You want to what?" Stiles asks, and there's no undercurrent of anything in his voice, no hint that he knows where this conversation is going, was going, was supposed to go. He's just waiting, open, like there's nothing Derek can say that he won't want to hear. He has to be to work in half an hour. There's not enough time to talk about it, if things go... badly. Derek will be left to stew in it all day, while he's gone.

"Nevermind," Derek says. "Nothing."

Stiles' chair scrapes across the floor as he stands up. He's wearing his uniform, and it makes his shoulders look broad, his legs look long, complements his body in all the best ways; he looks beautiful and authoritative and deadly, especially with a gun on his hip, and Derek never imagined he'd be turned on by weapons at the breakfast table. Derek is still in his sweats and a threadbare t-shirt; when Stiles presses close behind him, there's a certain erotic charge to be gotten from those uniform buttons, that badge, the thick buckle on the utility belt, all pressing against his back.

"It's not nothing," Stiles says. "You keep— you know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Just say it."

Derek wonders if they're talking about the same "it," if Stiles has any idea what he wants so desperately he can hardly think around it. What he actually _says_ is, "You'd do _anything?_ Because there's a grocery list and I don't really want to go into town today."

Stiles growls against the back of his neck, and Derek won't admit that it turns him on, but it does. It even turns him on when Stiles pulls away, walks to the fridge, and tugs the grocery list from beneath the magnet that's holding it in place.

"Oh, I'll get the groceries," he says. "I will _get the groceries._ " He says it with a narrow-eyed stare like he's swearing revenge against the supermarket, which he may or may not actually be doing... Derek will just have to see whether Stiles brings home any of the things that are _on_ the list, or if he just winds up with a bunch of freezer pizzas and sugary cereals.

They eat the bacon, and then Stiles pushes Derek up against the wall in the front hallway and kisses him long, hard, deep, until he breaks away with a muttered curse and says, "I'm late, I'm late," and runs out the door.

Derek does the dishes, scrubs out the pan, gets a few chores done. It's his day off, and he doesn't have anything in particular to do, especially since he's pawned off the grocery list on Stiles. It's positively luxurious, the idea of a whole day with nothing pressing to attend to, no pack matters demanding his attention, no work to be done. He could read, or take a nap, or cook himself a four-course lunch; he's not really used to time off, doesn't know where to start with his own relaxation.

He goes up into the bedroom and thinks about stretching out in the bed, jacking off slow and leisurely and then going back to sleep for awhile. He'd woken up early, a good hour before Stiles' alarm sounded, and he'd thought about waking Stiles up to fuck, but Stiles had work, needed his sleep, so Derek had just lain there in the dark, watching Stiles' eyes move behind their lids and listening to the steady puff of Stiles' breathing. He thought about all the things he had and whether it was greedy to still want more.

Now he pulls his clothes off, folds them neatly and puts them on the bed, and then shifts, all the way to the Alpha form, sits back on his considerably furrier haunches and peers into the mirror on the back of the closet door.

He's never bothered, before. This isn't really something he _does,_ shifting just because, padding around the house on four paws and curling up in a patch of sunlight for a nap. It sounds appealing though, now that he thinks about it, and kind of illicit, the same way wandering around the house naked all day — which he's done, a couple of times, mostly for laundry-related reasons — makes him feel simultaneously self-conscious and free, like he's getting away with something.

His other shape, when it's crouched against the plush carpet with morning sun streaming through the windows, doesn't really look all that intimidating, from a distance; he's an indistinct canine shape, dark fur, pointed ears, curve of a tail. With just the wall behind him, there's nothing reflecting in the mirror to give a sense of just how big he is. He could be a German Shepherd, and the thought rankles, so he creeps closer to the mirror, on all fours, in that gait that only an Alpha werewolf can manage, a movement that's too human to be animal and too animal to be human.

Up close, he's— he doesn't have a word for what he is. He doesn't have a context for understanding this body as his own, can only frame it in terms of his past experience, with intense love and intense hatred. He remembers his mother like this, bounding through the Preserve with Laura in full wolf form on her heels, his father streaking ahead, too fast for any of them to catch. He remembers Peter this way, a half-glimpsed shadow, mad with revenge and stolen power, remembers claws through his own chest and being thrown aside like he was nothing. There were others, too: an Alpha just passing through, but flaunting its invasion of the territory by taking a run through the Preserve as a hulking silver wolf-man, and another who made a more serious declaration of intent by tearing Scott half apart on the grass in front of the high school.

Derek doesn't look like any of them, though, particularly. He's mostly black, with silver edging his muzzle, peppering his arms and legs, dusting his chest. He's furrier than any Alpha he's seen before; Peter had looked like a dog with mange, and the one who'd attacked Scott had hardly had more hair than a human would, but Derek has what can only be called a pelt, thick and well-insulated, like a real wolf. He looks more like his mother in this skin than he does as a human.

He prowls around the inside of the house for awhile, pacing from room to room, his claws clicking against the hardwood downstairs. He shifts back to human in the afternoon, makes himself a sandwich, and then he shifts again, scoops the food off the plate with a sharp-toothed jaw, eats it like something out of a nature documentary. It's surprisingly satisfying. He winds up stretching out on a patch of sun-warmed carpet upstairs and dozes away the afternoon; when Stiles gets home, he yawns his wide mouth, gets up with a grunt and stretches until his back cracks. He feels good, warm and loose-limbed and easy, like some kind of tension in him has relaxed. He shrugs off his pelt, and he hears Stiles' footsteps coming up the stairs, so he doesn't bother to put on his clothes.

The next time, he does it while Stiles is home.

They're watching a movie, something with superheroes in tights and a lot of explosions; it's not very good, Derek isn't paying much attention. He gets up halfway through, goes upstairs to use the bathroom and decides to just... try it. He leaves his clothes in a neat pile on the edge of the bed, shakes his hands to get the nerves out. (It doesn't work.) He turns himself into an animal and slinks back down the stairs on all fours.

The bottom stair creaks, so Stiles can hear it when he gets back, and calls from the living room, "Hey, I paused the movie, you want to cook up some popcorn?"

Derek doesn't want to make popcorn. He's not actually sure he can manage it, without changing back, and he doesn't want to change back, either. He creeps around the end of the couch instead, finds Stiles exactly how Derek left him: stretched out on his back, legs claiming most of the couch now, one hand trailing against the floor, the other curled over his stomach. He's wearing jeans and he's barefoot, which — Derek wouldn't say he has a foot _fetish_ exactly, but he likes Stiles', the shape of the tendons just beneath the skin, the long toes, the way they flex and curl like a cat's when Stiles is happy.

He's decidedly not happy, when he catches sight of Derek at the end of the couch; he jerks and flails, scrambles backward until he's half sitting up, curses, almost falls onto the floor. Derek crawls up onto the couch and catches him with a clawed hand at the center of his chest, presses him back into place.

"Ooooooooooookay," Stiles says, slowly, blinking at him. His heart's still thrumming double-time in his chest, but he relaxes under Derek's paw, the tension seeping fast and easy out of his body, and it's almost drugging, that sensation of Stiles' whole body submitting, that he's not worried even when Derek looks like this. It shouldn't be a surprise, that acceptance, but it is anyway.

Derek huffs at him, turns around once, and then settles with a grunt, wedging himself between Stiles' spread legs, propping his chin up on the crest of Stiles' hip, where he can still see the TV. He's taking up most of the couch and still doesn't entirely fit; one of his legs is hanging off the edge and his tail is flopped over the arm. "Comfortable" isn't precisely the word, but it's close.

"Okay," Stiles says, softer, and he turns the movie back on, even though neither of them are really paying attention to it anymore.

Stiles' hands aren't even tentative, when they settle against Derek's skull; those fingers card through his fur, trace the edges of his ears and the dip between his eyes, dig in to scratch under the thick ruff around his neck. Stiles traces the same patterns against his skin, over and over, slow, firm, and hypnotic, and Derek falls asleep like that, between one muzzle-blown breath and the next.

When he wakes up, he's fallen back into his human skin and he has his face pressed against the crease of Stiles' hip. The TV's turned off, and all he can hear inside the house is the slow, steady beating of Stiles' heart, the tick of the hot water heater, the almost inaudible settling of the house. Stiles' fingers are still in his hair, massaging his scalp, and Derek kind of wants to stay like this forever, but Stiles' fingers will probably get tired eventually.

"I thought maybe you changed your mind," Stiles says, his voice low and rough like he's half-asleep himself. "I mean, you didn't mention it again."

Derek makes a protesting sound against Stiles' leg, noses up the hem of Stiles' t-shirt another inch so his teeth can reach skin, and delivers a soft, reproachful nip. _"You_ didn't mention it again," he complains, and he knows he sounds like a five-year-old but he can't help himself. Stiles brings it out in him.

"I didn't want to push you."

The sound Derek makes is a low, considering hum. He kisses the place he's just bitten, not an apology, just an addition. Stiles likes gentle and ungentle both; there's not much Derek can do that he has to make up for.

"Just hypothetically, though," Stiles says, when Derek's been quiet too long. "I mean, if I _had_ mentioned it. What would you have done?"

Derek shrugs, blinks slowly, and doesn't fight the smile that pulls at his lips. "So many things. Missed your chance, now."

Stiles hums, and his fingers trace the edges of Derek's human ears. "Yeah, I don't think I have, though. You could've used your words. Or if that was too tough, maybe just left me a note. You know, time, place, 'lube yourself up because I'm gonna wolf-fuck you through the floor.'"

"Such romance," Derek sighs. "I'll write up a list and put it on the fridge, next time."

"You do that," Stiles says. He sighs and then says, "We're so old, Derek. Old and married. I was just thinking we should go to bed because we both have work tomorrow. When did I start thinking about that sort of thing in the middle of a sex conversation?"

"I don't even know you anymore," Derek says, dryly. "I'm sure you'll understand when I leave you for someone younger and more flexible."

"Fuck you," Stiles says, but he doesn't. They go upstairs and share space at the bathroom sink and climb into bed together and _don't_ fuck, and it's completely fine.

Derek's developing a new kind of patience, the sort that's born from certainty: Stiles wants what he wants. They can have it anytime they like. There's no need to rush.

+++

  
  
**art by[Nordreys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nordreys)**

+++

He starts a list the next morning, and pins it up on the fridge beneath the magnet he usually uses for the grocery lists, the one that says, "To Do."

When he gets home, he finds a styrofoam container of leftover take-out in the fridge, a scribbled note that Stiles has been called back in to the department and won't be home until late, and a second line added to the "to do" list on the fridge.

He heats up the leftovers and eats them standing in front of the fridge, grinning like an idiot.

+++

By the time the list has spilled over onto a second piece of paper, Derek has started to worry.

It's not the list itself that's a problem, because they've both enthusiastically embraced the idea. Stiles plucks the paper off the fridge every morning and ponders it over his coffee like he's reading the newspaper, pressing his ankle against Derek's beneath the table. Derek usually makes his own additions after work, before Stiles gets home, shy but increasingly emboldened about the prospect of having this. The anticipation alone is a kind of foreplay; they've never bothered to hold back before, not after that first searing kiss and the inevitable tumble into bed, so _waiting_ is something new and interesting, even if they're still fucking each other's brains out more than any married couple has a right to.

The problem is, more specifically, the particular things that Stiles is adding to the list. He's trying not to judge but he thinks maybe, somewhere, there's been a... miscommunication.

Stiles is the one always telling him to use his words, so Derek does; he takes the list down from the fridge and puts in the middle of the dining room table, both pages carefully positioned next to each other, and waits for Stiles to get home.

He catches the familiar engine noises of Stiles' patrol vehicle, boots on the front porch, the door opening and shutting, and then Stiles is standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning on the wall, still in uniform and looking tired.

Stiles says, "Hey," and smiles, scrubs his hands over his eyes and then notices the list on the table, does a double-take and says again, "Heeeeeyyyyyyy," drawing the word out this time like he means something else completely. His eyebrows do something complicated and the corner of his mouth hitches up. "Are we—"

"We're talking about it," Derek says, in a tone of voice that sounds ominous even to his own ears. He's leaning back against the kitchen counter, has been for twenty minutes, and he probably should have been cooking dinner just for something to do with his hands, but he's been too nervous, going over and over in his head what it is that he wants to say.

"Okay. Do you want me to like, sit down, or...?" Stiles has definitely picked up the tension in the air, seems a little uncertain, taking two steps into the kitchen and then stalling there like he isn't sure what he's supposed to do.

Derek's made this thing more awkward than it has to be, but to be fair to himself, it's going to be awkward no matter what he does. He figures he should just get it over with.

"I'm just... uh. I'm concerned. That you might have certain ideas. That are... wrong."

Stiles raises his eyebrows in a decidedly more skeptical way. He doesn't sit, but he does lean back against the table, mirrors Derek's pose, fingers curled around the table's edge in a way that showcases the corded muscle in his forearms. "Ideas about what, exactly?"

Derek blows out a breath and tries not to stare at Stiles' hands, makes an effort to look him in the eye, instead. It isn't easy, but it's necessary. "About me. And just... werewolves. In general."

The corner of Stiles' lips turns up. He's a lot better at being wrong than he was as a teenager, but his expression clearly says he doubts he _is_ wrong, about anything. His cocky expression would be infuriating if it weren't so attractive. "Alright, that's a start," he says. "So what am I wrong about?"

Derek huffs and looks away, at the floor, crosses his arms over his chest. "You just— you know I'd never hurt you."

"Of course I know that," Stiles says. His voice has gone soft and gentle, and when Derek looks again, his face is the same way, open and tender and helplessly fond. "Of course I do. Derek, what's—"

"It's just the list," Derek blurts out. "There's kind of a theme with the things you added."

"There is?" Stiles says. He reaches behind him, blindly grabs at both sheets, crumpling them a little in his hands. He reads them, then re-reads them, and then his mouth makes a kind of an O shape as he clearly gets it.

"I know you like to read those idiotic supernatural bodice-rippers, but you know that's not actually how things are, right?" Derek says. "Wolves don't court that way, don't mate that way, and I'm not an actual wolf anyway. Werewolves don't generally fuck that way, either. When I change I'm still _me,_ I'm still a person, I'm completely in control and I don't want you to think that if we're going to do this that it has to be like that, _violent,_ and I—"

Stiles tosses the pages back onto the table without even looking; one of them catches on the air, drifts sideways and onto the floor. "I know it doesn't have to be that way," he interrupts, and throws up his hands like _Derek's_ the one being ridiculous. "I thought we were— I mean, the list is for things that are hard to ask for out loud, right?"

"Right," Derek agrees, tentative.

Stiles pushes himself away from the table, crosses the kitchen one careful step at a time, until he's pressing into Derek's space. Derek's arms unfold and his hips shift to make room, creating hollows in his body for Stiles to fill, just like he always does.

"So, all that stuff, it's what I want, and what I have a hard time asking for. I know you're in control; you're _always_ in control. You're always careful, even when I push you, no matter how hard I push you. But sometimes I push because I want more than you're giving me. Okay? I put this stuff on the list because _I want it._ I know it's not a werewolf thing, Derek, it's a _me_ thing. If you don't want to, that's fine; there's plenty of other stuff on the list, there's plenty of other stuff we both know we like, we can do any of it. Alright?"

"Alright," Derek says, still feeling wrong-footed and uncertain, even as Stiles presses into him and bites his mouth open, trying to say something more with the sting of blunt, human teeth.

Derek allows himself to curl his fingers a little too tight against Stiles' waist, and contemplates the idea of biting back.

+++

In the end, there's not really anything to think about: of course he'll give Stiles what he wants.

There's no reason to wait any longer, and he knows that any further delay will only give Stiles time to get wound up about it, and not in a good way. So the next night, when he gets home from work, he takes the list down off the fridge, folds it up carefully and tucks it into the nightstand drawer in their bedroom, because he likes to think they're going to need to keep referring to it.

He's just looking for Stiles' usual workout clothes, when he rifles through their closet, but the breakaway pants are a fortuitous discovery. Stiles used to wear them over his shorts while warming the bench at lacrosse games; they have snaps all along the sides, so they can be pulled off in a hurry, and Derek wants to find that hilarious but instead he spaces out for a minute, rubbing the slithery material between his fingers and imagining ripping them off with his clawed hands.

He leaves the pants, neatly folded, at the edge of the kitchen table, along with a t-shirt — one of Derek's, so if it happens to get shredded Stiles won't be able to complain — a pair of socks, and a pointed lack of underwear. He lines Stiles' sneakers neatly up on the floor, and then takes his own clothes off, leaves them draped haphazardly over the back of a chair, like a red flag in front of a bull.

He checks the time — Stiles will be home in a half hour, maybe less — and he pins up a new note on the fridge, in place of the list, before he walks naked out the back door and into the woods.

The note says, _You should go for a run_ and then, at the bottom, _p.s. Lube yourself up because I'm gonna wolf-fuck you through the floor._

+++

Patience doesn't come easily to Derek. As a kid he was too impulsive; as an adult, too paranoid. Even now, with the pack pulled together and settled, the house rebuilt, the hard-won peace as stable as it's going to get, there's usually something that needs his attention. Stiles accuses him of always _finding_ something that needs to be done, manufacturing reasons to keep moving, and he's not wrong: stillness, patience, _relaxation,_ they're all acquired skills, and Derek sometimes thinks he's too set in his ways to learn how to let his guard down.

What he's doing now is active too, though, in its way. He's not moving, crouched in the undergrowth just off the trail, hidden well enough that the entire BHHS track team could run by and not spot him, but it's not as if he's doing nothing. He's listening, breathing, anticipating, _waiting,_ and he's cultivating the kind of patience he's proving to be best at: the kind that's guaranteed to be rewarded. He's not worried anymore, not second-guessing himself, he's just _ready,_ in every possible way, for what's coming.

What's coming now, in the immediate sense, is Stiles. Derek picks up his footfalls easily, the sound of his breath rasping from his lungs — he's running too fast, almost sprinting, overeager — and he'd never be able to run their usual route at this pace, but they both know he won't have to.

Derek listens, holding himself still even as his own breathing picks up, excitement kicking his heart rate up a notch, and he digs his clawed hands into the soil, making himself hang on and stay. He tenses, holds his breath as Stiles goes sprinting past and makes himself wait, gives Stiles a bit of a lead before he lurches out onto the trail behind, loping easy and long on all fours, taking his time.

Derek isn't trying to be quiet, which is why Stiles knows he's there almost immediately. Stiles looks back, curses loudly, almost trips over himself, and then puts on a little more desperate speed. This might not be something that werewolves do, but it's clearly something that _they_ do, because Stiles' heart is thrumming with a mixture of alarm and excitement, Derek's own heart is keeping time, and they're on the same page in every way as Derek herds Stiles off their usual jogging path and into the trees.

He hasn't exactly prepared a blanket and a picnic, knows that isn't what Stiles wants, but he does have a spot in mind, a little hollow with tall, soft grass and the wilting remains of the summer's wildflowers. He's right on Stiles' heels when they get there, and it only takes a casual swipe of his hand against Stiles' ankles to send him tumbling to earth.

There's not much elegance in it, but Stiles knows how to fall, how to keep himself from breaking, even as his momentum keeps him rolling right into the hollow and onto the flat of his back, the air whooshing from his lungs. There are fresh grass stains on his — _Derek's_ — t-shirt, and a smudge of dirt across his cheek and the bridge of his nose. He digs his hands into the ground like he's planning to scramble back, but he doesn't have time for it, because Derek's already on top of him, snarling and snapping sharp teeth together, making a good show of it.

Stiles tips his head back, bares his throat, relaxes back against the ground in a clear signal of surrender, but Derek doesn't _want_ it. He snarls again and prods at Stiles with his claws, rakes them ungently down Stiles' ribs, not hard enough to draw blood but certainly enough to raise welts. Stiles' reaction is instinctive and satisfying: he struggles, trying to twist from beneath Derek's body even as he's gasping, pressing up into the pain, and chanting, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," beneath his breath. His pupils are wide and dark, and he's already tenting the front of his track pants.

Derek's not careful when he pulls Stiles halfway to his feet, or when he rips the breakaway bottoms off — clearly one of his better ideas — or when he manhandles Stiles onto his hands and knees. Stiles doesn't hold back, either; his hands scramble against Derek's forearms, his body bucks up into Derek's like he's trying to throw the weight off, he twists and squirms like he's trying to escape. He's certainly not trying very _hard,_ but it still makes Derek clutch him tighter, treat him rougher, curl possessively around him to _make_ him hold still.

It's more like Stiles has _decided_ to hold still, when Derek finally has him in place, but the illusion of the struggle is more than satisfying, when Derek has Stiles beneath him, their hips pressed together, one of Derek's arms wrapped solid as an iron band around Stiles' chest, the other curled under Stiles' belly, Stiles' shaky arms braced against the ground, fingers fisted around dirt and grass. Derek's panting against Stiles' ear, whining low and uncontrollable like his voice isn't even his own anymore. Pressing his hips forward, pressing himself _in_ where Stiles is already wet and ready for him, is all instinct and blind, unthinking lust.

They both moan together, a song almost as harmonious as a howl, and Derek thrusts again, harder, the length of his cock pushing up and out from his sheath, pressing deeper into Stiles, and Stiles is panting too, whimpering, and urging Derek on with low noises of "yes" and "more" and "harder."

Derek is helpless to do anything but obey, always has been, incapable of denying Stiles any inch of his body, unable to do anything but open himself and invite Stiles in.

He knows he isn't going to last, makes it hard and fast, holds nothing of himself back. He licks his long tongue between Stiles' shoulder blades, scrapes his teeth against the back of Stiles' neck, and curls his claws against Stiles' vulnerable stomach, rakes them in a long, blunt swipe from one pointed hipbone to the other. Stiles' cock bumps against the bones of his wrist, leaves a wet stripe against his fur, but he ignores it, ignores Stiles' pleasure entirely, just takes and takes and takes, does his best to pull Stiles apart, lay him bare, flay him open without spilling a drop of blood.

He doesn't ask if Stiles wants the knot, because he already knows, just like he knows Stiles can take it, feels the way Stiles yields beneath him, desperate for it. All it takes is one more push, like he's trying to press his way _through,_ and Stiles lets out a strangled sob even as his arms give out. The sensation of the knot locking into place makes Derek's eyes roll back in his head, and he starts coming, hard, feels the pull of it in his spine; his hands close reflexively against Stiles' body and his grip is probably too tight, it probably _hurts,_ but Stiles just makes a wordless noise and comes too, the scent of it filling Derek's nostrils, making his back arch and his claws scramble uselessly at Stiles' skin.

Stiles says, "Holy shit, holy shit," and the words are hardly intelligible because his face is pressed against the earth and he looks broken, ruined, beautiful.

Derek holds him up, can't seem to let him go, and it has nothing to do with the knot or the reflexive twitching of his hips or his tight, corded muscles that don't seem to want to relax. It has everything to do with the soft, mewling, satisfied noises Stiles is making, and the way he gropes blindly beneath himself, not to stroke himself down from orgasm but to pet at Derek's furred arm, slip his own fingers between Derek's thick knuckles.

Derek's supposedly the one in control of the whole scenario, but it's Stiles who rocks back against his knot and murmurs, "So good, so good for me, god, Derek, you're so amazing," and Derek can't do anything but lick at Stiles' mouth and whimper like an eager pet.

They don't have to stay tied together — Derek could shift back, and the knot would be gone — but Derek _wants_ it, and he's beginning to realize that wanting is the same as having, between the two of them, so he stays inside, where he wants to be. He eases them both carefully to the ground, curls around Stiles' back and laves his tongue over every inch of skin he can reach, repetitively, hypnotically, until Stiles shrugs his shoulders and grunts a protest.

"I can't believe you just fucked me with my shoes on," Stiles says, after awhile. "You _know_ that's my number one pet peeve in porn."

Derek nips at him reproachfully, but then he finds another piece of skin to nip a little harder, and Stiles moans, arching back into it, the wriggle of his hips tugging deliciously on the knot. They lose themselves in it for awhile, Derek's teeth closing carefully with just a hint too much pressure over the crests of Stiles' shoulders, and Stiles twisting his head back to mouth at Derek's muzzle, lick at the corners of his mouth, Stiles' arm stretched back and fingers buried in the fur at the side of Derek's neck, holding him fast.

When the knot finally lets go and slips free, Derek dedicates himself to cleaning up, lapping at Stiles' hole, his own come and the chemical taste of lube on his tongue, until Stiles finally kicks at him to get him to stop, and collapses into the grass, gasping and exhausted, wrung out. Derek turns him over and licks his stomach clean, too, and then waits patiently while Stiles drifts slowly back to awareness, gathers up his discarded pants and runs his dirty hands through his disheveled hair.

They walk back home at a slow, unhurried pace, Stiles' leg brushing occasionally against Derek's side, his fingers stroking over Derek's back with every stride. They take a long, hot shower together, when Derek's back in his human skin. Derek cooks burgers for dinner, Stiles does the dishes, they sleep tangled together like they always have.

When Derek wakes up in the morning, Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing slow over each new mark, like he's learning his body all over again. There are red welts from Derek's claws on his chest, stomach, and hips, bruises blossoming purple over his kneecaps, another in the shape of teeth over the slope of his shoulder. They're lurid in the light of day, ugly and obvious against Stiles' pale skin, so much worse than Derek intended.

Derek lies very still and watches him, guilt like a lead weight in his belly, but Stiles already knows he's awake. He reaches out, snares Derek's hand with his own, places Derek's fingers very carefully against the bruise on his collarbone and presses down, firm and steady, breath gusting from his open mouth. Derek swallows hard, props himself up on an elbow and reaches out for the welts on Stiles' stomach; when he drags his soft human fingertips across them, Stiles shivers, his pupils stretch a little wider.

Then he tumbles back into bed, into Derek's arms, and Derek traces each line with his fingers, his tongue, and Stiles goes boneless beneath him, shuddering and groaning, his bruises dark against the white sheets. Stiles doesn't come just from the pressure on his fresh wounds, but he's hard and ready by the time Derek wraps a hand around his cock and starts stroking, tight and slow, Stiles' hips rolling up against Derek's hand.

"You like the marks," Derek says, and it's not quite a question.

Stiles pants, whines, sounds like an animal himself, begging for an orgasm that Derek isn't quite ready to give him yet. "We established that already," he gasps, and presses himself up into the curve of Derek's hand.

"I thought it was just the rough sex you wanted," Derek says. His hand moves slow, steady, just on the edge of too tight. "I figured I'd have to listen to you complain about the scrapes and bruises for at least the next week."

Stiles twists like he's trying to wriggle out of his own skin, grabs Derek's wrist and tries to direct him, but Derek's stronger, keeps up his relentless pace and just lets Stiles hang on. "No complaints here," Stiles says, slurs really, edging closer to coming. "They're perfect. _You're_ perfect. God, Derek, come on."

Derek hums a considering sound, swipes his thumb over the head of Stiles' cock and strips his hand down again, fast and hard, breaks his rhythm just to watch the way Stiles' body jerks and shudders. He tightens his grip, twists his wrist, feels Stiles begin to unravel; he presses his mouth against the raised, red lines on Stiles' chest, traces one of them with his tongue, feeling satisfied and proprietary.

"I want you to tell me everything you want, even if you think I won't like it," Derek says, low and quiet, right against Stiles' ear. "I want to give you all of it. I want to take everything from you. I want to put you back together with my own hands. Will you let me?"

"Fuck," Stiles hisses, "yes, Jesus, all of it, I want the same thing, Derek, fuck, I love you, I—"

Derek closes his human teeth over Stiles' shoulder, on the inside of the more massive bite mark he's already left there; he bites down, hard, at the same he viciously pulls the orgasm from Stiles' body.

Stiles cries out, shakes, trembles in Derek's hold like he's dying, but he's as solid and strong as he's ever been, and when he collapses back against the bed, cooling sweat on his skin and tear tracks already drying on his cheeks, he's smiling.

Derek brings him down with long, gentle strokes of his hand, cups his palm around Stiles' jaw, curls his fingers around the arch of Stiles' throat, traces the lines of collarbones, sternum, ribs. He considers all the things he wants, all the things he's only now _letting_ himself want, and thinks it at the same moment Stiles says it out loud:

"We're gonna need a longer list."

Derek laughs and bends down to kiss his mouth. They're going to need a book, maybe, but that's alright; they can fill it together.

  
  
**art by[Nordreys](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nordreys)**   


**Author's Note:**

> I don't think it's been scientifically tested, but I'm willing to bet that curling up with a werewolf is not actually an effective treatment for real hypothermia. If you too have fallen into a mind-controlling lake, please seek professional medical advice.
> 
> I am available for non-professional advice regarding werewolf medicine on [tumblr](http://agentotter.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you enjoyed your xeno reading experience and would like to have more, you can find my xeno recs list [right over here](http://agentotter.tumblr.com/post/70369625471/teen-wolf-xenokink-rec-list).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Wolves In The House (Won't Let Me Out) -- Chapter One](https://archiveofourown.org/works/902606) by [Jinxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxy/pseuds/Jinxy)
  * [[Fanart for] Wolves In The House (Won't Let Me Out)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/986479) by [nordreys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nordreys/pseuds/nordreys)




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